Lost in the mountains to Stop Light Observations:
My friends had been smart and brought locks for their bikes. Fuck. My brother had told me to bring a lock for his bike. I was eager to leave and had thrown the bike in the car and left for the ferry.
I’ll buy a lock when I get there.
I rode past the bar and noticed a small shack with a dark fenced in yard. I could hear music inside.
He’s gonna kill me. This is a terrible place to hide a bike. It’s a nice bike too. Fuck, this shack might even be connected to the bar? It can’t be. I need to get inside. It isn’t.
I’ll tell the people inside the shack what I’m doing. Either they’ll tell me to fuck off or be amused by it.
The members of Ripe were crowded into this house preparing to go on stage. They were amused.
‘Terrible spot for a bike’ one of them yells through a smile.
I was sitting on a frozen pile of 2×4’s, battling the winter air, a crossword puzzle in hand, a new found way to pass the ‘mud hour’ at work: 4-5pm; most contractors have already claimed a stool at the local bar.
6 across: ‘contains the motherlode’
I began running the basic solving processes through my head: *8 letter word, 7th letter is ‘n’, hmm, motherlode, the name of an old video game my brothers and I spent endless hours on which involved operating a mining vehicle on Mars*
The Aftermath has often discussed ways in which we discover music. It’s become an important riddle for both the basement music scourer and the industry giants, both seeking a way to find the next rich lode, the next profitable source or supply, the next rare gem, the place that will contain the motherlode, the, goldmine.
Whenever a Spotify link pops up from him in my texts, I get excited and grab my headphones. He knows it when he hears it. A similar ear for music and countless memories created through sound makes his read on it a good one. He’s a consistent source and has a knack for finding the gems, a goldmine for my music library:
The final installment to Wet Ink, a nostalgic tribute to late nights. Fingers crossed, last and least, we’re moving on.
I remember first being introduced to the term ‘dirtbag’ by my older brother.
The term had long detached itself from its Merriam-Webster routes as “unpleasant and unkept,” and had become a sort lifestyle that could be found in the pages of Thrasher Magazine or your local skate park.
Rebellious, disconnected and care-free might be fitting descriptions for a true ‘dirtbag’; one who throws themselves into a situation with little knowledge or care for the consequence.
Mac Demarco shows up to interviews with big name magazines wearing ripped vans, unwashed jeans, and a five-panel hat. He usually tucks a Viceroy cigarette tightly behind his right ear. The Canadian guitar player is the gold-standard of ‘dirtbags’.
One interviewer asks what Demarco’s “rider” (what an artist requests his playing venue to have ready on a table when they arrive) looks like. “A bottle of Jameson, a flat of beer, and a map showing all the nearest pinball machines in the area,” he answers.
His showtime antics have become legendary. He’s been arrested on stage after stripping all his clothes for the final song of the night, and he’s climbed to the top of light towers to belly-flop into the crowd, wearing nothing but an orange life-vest, “to stay afloat.” At the end of his last EP, he gave out the address to his new apartment in L.A., promising to make coffee for anyone that showed up at his door.
What’s great about Demarco, is he’s genuine. I read through countless interviews where journalists try and get some explanation for his reckless lifestyle; they fiend for details over his cigarette addiction and his reasoning for never washing his pants. He fends of these attempts with clever coolness, all these quirky habits are just part of who he is.
“What’s your favorite part about living and making music in America?” someone asks him, seeking a blast of patriotism.
With little hesitation, he gives his gap-tooth smile and responds:
“Beer is cheap, god bless.”